


Another Routine Mauling

by wildhoneypie



Series: Stories Are Made of Mistakes [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Shameless Smut, i guess i have a little shame, sometimes things happen in bathrooms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 11:22:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7638145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildhoneypie/pseuds/wildhoneypie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t call me buddy,” Cas says. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Sometime after "Stories Are Made of Mistakes"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Routine Mauling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aerialiste](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerialiste/gifts).



“I just—ah—want to know—”

“Dean, stop moving.”

“Ok, ok yes, but I want to know when it was, if it was gradual, or—” Dean’s voice is cut off by the sudden lack of air moving into his lungs, his breath falters, and Cas’s eyes flick up, the high beam of the concentration he’d been directing towards Dean’s dick and the two fingers he had inside of him suddenly focused on measuring Dean’s face.

Manfully, Dean turns bright pink and sucks air into his lungs, avoiding the orgasm that would’ve come embarrassingly too soon by internally chanting _No no no no no no no_ and picturing a neon wendigo blinking on and off menacingly inside of his head. After a moment, he feels out of the danger zone. _No orgasm here, my son,_ says the wendigo approvingly, sounding a bit like a priest.

“ _Or—_ ” Dean continues, choosing to ignore the rising blush on his cheeks and his near miss, “or if you saw me in Hell, and immediately thought, ‘I’m gonna kiss the shit out of that, just as soon as I wipe off the viscera,’ and then couldn’t decide when the time was right and just—”

“You’ve really got a mouth on you,” Cas says. 

“Yeah I do, buddy,” Dean gasps, and does the eyebrow thing, even though his brain is not operating correctly under the ministrations of the former angel of the Lord who is currently rather methodically attempting to rip a scream from him, one of Dean’s legs supporting itself on the toilet, his hand scrabbling for purchase behind him at the top of the stall.

Sometimes it’s easier to joke through the whole thing, like if he doesn’t, he’ll say embarrassing shit and cartoon hearts will start revolving around his head.

“Don’t call me buddy,” Cas says. He bites his lip in concentration and if it weren’t for the flush on his cheeks, Cas’s mien would suggest that he’s conducting some kind of very important science experiment, instead of what he’s actually doing, which is finger-banging his boyfriend in the bathroom of The Buckhorn Bar in Missoula, Montana.

*

They were supposed to be gathering information about the series of maulings in the area—hopefully not an actual wendigo—but they’d sat at the bar for less than ten minutes and a shot of whiskey apiece before a girl had walked up to Cas and asked him if he knew anything about bull riding.

 “I…” Cas had seemed to genuinely consider the question, gaze going soft and unfocused as he sifted through his angelic filing cabinet under “Bulls, Riding of.”

The girl, all tight tank top and cut off shorts, having probably never had to wait this long for a proposition to land, shifted her feet uncomfortably before deciding to barrel on through.

“I’m a champion rider,” she’d said, and brushed her hand down Cas’s forearm. “Placed in the rodeo last week and everything.”

“Oh, that’s—” Cas had said, and stared down at his arm blankly. 

“Oh it’s a skill, honey, to stay on something that powerful, to keep a beast like that between your thighs. I could teach you,” the girl had said, and Cas’s face had begun to exhibit a dawning understanding, as the girl leaned into Cas even further, “You look like you have very powerful thighs. City boy like you, I bet you’d need a few lessons—”

“The thing is!” Dean had yelped, “My friend here is a very skilled rider himself, just the friggin’ best, and I don’t think he needs lessons, he’s got it down, he—”

And then Cas was looking at him, something like amusement in his eyes, and the girl had stepped back from Cas and said, “Oh I see how it is,” flicking her eyes from Dean to Cas, before saying, “You boys have fun,” and marching off into some other dark corner of the bar to continue her campaign of sexual shock and awe.

Cas had laughed a little under his breath then, and said, “A very skilled rider?” a question mark and his mouth turning up a little at the end and Dean suddenly couldn’t laugh at all, the thread between him and Cas pulled ever tighter so that through the good foot and a half of space that separated them, the air seemed to vibrate with heat, their bodies calling to each other, calling up the ghost of all the times they’d touched each other in the past month, Cas shoving Dean into Dean’s bedroom in the bunker that first time they’d gotten back after The Hunt, after everything had changed, Cas all over Dean, gritting out, “Take off your pants Dean, there are too many places I haven’t touched you,” licking his palm ( _where had he learned that?_ Dean had thought, bewildered), taking Dean in hand and taking him off too fast, so that Dean was whimpering and biting into Cas’s neck, murmuring “It’s too much, it’s too good, fuck—” when Cas had pulled Dean’s head up from his shoulder so he could look him in the eye as he commanded, “Dean, you’re going to come now, for _me,_ ”—that last ‘me’ somehow both raising and diminishing the specter of the women who had come before, so that when Dean came he was whispering, “I’m yours, I’m yours, Jesus fuck, I’m yours Cas,” tears inexplicably welling up in his eyes. Cas had smiled at him, wiped the tears from Dean’s eyes, and said, “In this case I think I can make an exception for your blasphemy, as you’re so lovely like this,” and Dean had pretty much not left his bed since, unless the circumstances were very expedient and involved food or maulings in creepy golf courses.

*

At the bar, Dean had wordlessly stood and gone to the bathroom, certain Cas would follow. A respectable minute and a half later, Dean was pulling Cas into the stall.

They’d locked the bathroom door, they weren’t animals.

Dean had sunk to his knees in the single stall in the shitty bathroom under Cas’s fierce gaze, fumbling with Cas’s belt until Cas had gasped, one hand cupped around the back of Dean’s head, fingers tightening in Dean’s hair, making Dean go exquisitely slow so they could maintain eye contact, and somehow even this slowness was about how Dean was his and he was Dean’s, just as the quickness in the bunker had been too—a claiming, Dean’s jaw aching, Dean achingly hard, the blue of Cas’s eyes boring into him and Dean’s old knees protesting and Dean’s heart that rapid staccato stutter that meant he _wanted_ , Cas breathing heavily, a whispered, “Dean, I—” the only warning before he went rigid, biting his lip until it was white, coming down Dean’s throat, his hand stroking the back of Dean’s head, Dean taking all of it. He had pulled Dean to his feet, knowing how his knees were, had cupped his face and kissed him fiercely, wet and hot, had murmured hoarsely, “Beautiful,” tracing the outline of Dean’s mouth with his thumb before…this, Dean scrabbling for purchase, Cas giving him a hand job so merciless that his legs are trembling. 

“If you must know,” Cas says, and Dean knows there is an extra special flavor of bitchy that Chuck bequeathed to all the angels, “time didn’t really work like that for me until I became human.” Cas is still staring directly into his eyes, Dean is still embarrassingly hard and wet, pushing back on Cas’s fingers, begging for more, like he always is with Cas. “Everything was present and past for me when I was an angel, so time didn’t move like a train for me, inexorably forward. Anything that happened was laid over the map of what already was and will be.” Cas leans forward then, fingers leaving Dean, and he’s gripping the hollows of Dean’s waist and slowing the hand on Dean’s dick to a glacial pace. “So when I knew I loved you, it infected everything I had done and was going to yet do. It was outside of time and in all times. It has been happening for me since the beginning of everything,” and then Cas, eyes still open, but too close now—too much, like he always is, when he comes into a room he takes up all the space—kisses Dean, just one chaste little peck, tracing Dean’s mouth with his tongue a little as he moves away, and Dean makes a truly embarrassing noise then, coming all over Cas and himself, groaning, “Oh you sweet-talking little fucker, always have to one up me, don’t you?”


End file.
